poem13 Apr 2021 06:19 pm
Robert Borski
Hidden or unhid, a shadow playing peekaboo in the reflecting glass of our twinship, he who is both kin and chemical love child floats in the clear aspic of my lymph, though at the moment he is less preserved than confined. I will always hesitate to call him brother, but know that even when we pretend otherwise, the two of us are both still there in the amnion of blood and violence that jointly unites us in playing card fashion as jailer and inmate, the Jack of Murderous Wrath. My biggest fear, however: that fratricide will only liberate the one of us who wields the scalpel most intent on carving himself out of the other, but is too wholly absorbed with the process to ever notice the resulting scars never seem to heal, no matter how much either my brother or I caress them.
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